It is evening at Christmas-tide as we come to the Sanctuary--quaint name for the open space in front of the Abbey--the traffic seems at its very busiest. The Aquarium hard by is getting ready for a busy night; its electric arc lights are blazing. Beyond, the fierce light at the top of the Clock Tower gives token of busy work within, for a so-called “autumn session” is going on. Everything betokens din, bustle, and hard work. Passing under the archway we are in “Dean’s Yard,” and what a sudden change! It almost seems a monastic inclosure. The moon is at the full; the noise of the streets is suddenly hushed. Here are the old-fashioned buildings, low and antique, with the entrance to the Cloisters of the Abbey. The chimes from the Clock Tower are giving out eight. Here, too, is the Dean’s House, quaint, low and spreading, with a deceptive air of ruin, mullioned windows, and the Canons’ residences beside it; the Head Master’s house, too, all such as would be found in a Cathedral Close. Here are small peaked windows, the walls bearing a look of rust and ruin, but very sound. Passing through a dilapidated little archway, we reach the square, where on the left is made out Ashburnham House, lost in shadow; but its elegant iron gate is distinct enough; while in front there is the old-fashioned and heavy irregular buildings of the Westminster School, with its old-fashioned porch and steps, and straggling doorways. A crowd of persons are entering--the youths, fine lads, stand about in their caps and gowns. We pass up some cramped stairs and find ourselves in the great dormitory, with alcoves on each side, while overhead are seen the beams of the sloping platform which support the spectators’ seats. For in this vast hall the performance is given. It is a gay and festive scene enough, brilliantly lit up, with a handsomely painted proscenium at the end, while the huge sloping platform is crowded. On the right the ladies of the audience are grouped together in ascetic seclusion, much as ladies are placed in the _Palchi_ during the Holy Week at Rome. Young scholastic aides-de-camp in cap and gown distribute bills and show us to our proper places. The Head Master, the cordial and energetic Dr. Rutherford, enters in state, and with him the personages invited, who sit in rows in the centre. On the right and left are the scholars, and dressed in the best West-end style; a brave company. “Alas!” said Charles Lamb’s brother, “to think that these fine, bright young fellows will one day become _stupid Members of Parliament_.” [Illustration: _From a Drawing by_ HERBERT RAILTON.]